


When There's a Will, There's a Way

by ActuallyAndroid



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biting, Blood, Cu has two dicks and my only explanation is that MedB is a thirsty-ass ho, F/M, Injury, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, be warned, lit the only reason this doesn't have a non-con tag is because reader is the kinkiest human alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:51:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAndroid/pseuds/ActuallyAndroid
Summary: Though now that you think about it, you never did sign your last testament.





	When There's a Will, There's a Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atroposisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atroposisms/gifts).



> Immensely belated but very sincere birthday wishes to the sweetest angel on this earth. Love u to bits sweetheart <3 !!!

You’d like to think Chaldea has grown more peaceful over time.

Well, for the most part, anyway.

With a cast as colourful as the one you’ve become familiar with, the occasional skirmish is probably inevitable. Sometimes, Carmilla will pick on new summons and someone will have to step-in to make it known that blood donation is not, under any circumstance, part of anyone’s day-to-day responsibilities, or Arjuna will come across Karna in the corridor and the tension snubbing the air will be thick enough to swim through. And sure, there’s always the looming threat of some grade-A monstrosity biding its time in the background, treading on your heels and giving you grief whenever you think you can relax. (With an increasingly despondent acceptance, your sleeping schedule has given way to late-night planning sessions.)

Still, at least the servants seem to be doing a good job of tuning it out and getting on with their lives, though that might be thanks to the way you’ve lately found yourself to be the one to approach when shit hits the fan. (Probably something to do with your position as the master. Either that, or the room codes for your study and Chaldea’s complaint department were inconspicuously swapped when the receptionist got sick of Shuten Doji making everyone drunk without their permission.)

Long story short, it’s why you’re not surprised when you’ve got a backlog of requests asking you to deal with whatever has been making Alter Cu Chulainn so hard to get along with recently.

That’s not to say he’s ever been _easy_ to get along with, per say, but over time, you’ve at least seen him have conversations with other servants that border out of ‘begrudging,’ even if marginally. Now it seems like perhaps he’s regressed, because recently it’s all grunting and angry, clipped replies until the battle’s done and he retires to his room for the rest of the day. During the last fray, he even went as far as to snap at Jeanne for passing along one of your orders, and when another berserker confronted him about it, he allegedly whipped them over the ankles with his tail (read: slammed them so hard that were they ten pounds lighter, they’d have flown into the nearest wall) as he turned away and walked off.

It’s definitely a good idea to flush whatever gunk is making communication difficult amid battle, so you want to deal with it as soon as possible. Even more than that however, you’re just worried about him. He’s receding into a solitary lifestyle and becoming more reclusive again, and that’s a good sign approximately zero times out of ten in any decent self-help book.

So what other option do you have than to approach him about it?

 

* * *

 

It’s late evening, two and a half hours after a clash with a group of Chimera on a recon assignment. Most everyone is spending the remaining hours of the day sleeping the afternoon away bar you, who’s standing outside of Cu Chulainn’s room, knocking on his door and impatiently rocking from one foot to the other. To your disdain, he turned tail to go back to his room once the battle was over faster than you could blink, and by the time you delegated jobs and finished tending to the injured he’d already locked himself in.

“Cu? Are you in there?” you ask. Enough time has passed with no response that the possibility you got the wrong room is starting to seem more and more likely. You’re just about to give up and leave when you hear the tell-tale clatter of his tail knocking something over.

“I heard that!” you yell against the door, and there’s a long, begrudging groan in response. You strain your patience in the hopes it means he’s about to let you in, but a long moment passes to the absence of even his footsteps.

“Come on Cu, I know you’re in there!” you shout impatiently, only half-wary of anyone that might be walking past. This time when you knock, you do it hard enough that the door rattles against its hinges, but nevertheless, his response is at best underwhelming.

“I’m busy.” His voice is so gravelly it sounds just about three pitches from growling. You weren’t expecting him to happy to have you at his door, but you’re still a little surprised to have him disregard you entirely. (Even on bad days, he’s usually consistent about following orders, if a little begrudging.)

“Can I at least talk to you for a second? This is important.”

There’s a disinterested grunt from inside the room. It’s quite clear to you that instead of entertaining any real inclination to listen to you, he’s just trying to placate you enough that you won’t break the door down and march in.

“Cu, do you hear me?”  

Another long growl, a little angrier than the last. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk.”

“About what?”

“Something you wouldn’t want to discuss in an open corridor, probably.”

There’s a long, tense silence full of nothing at all as he hesitates, and then you hear him mumble something that sounds a little like, “so stubborn,” before lumbering over to the door, which unlocks with a sharp, angry twist. It swings open so fast you nearly trip over yourself trying to find your balance, and it’s the first time in about four days you catch a decent glimpse of him.

The first thing you notice is that his only item of clothing is a pair of loose, black pants. Though you’re used to him going shirtless, your eyes still can’t help but dart over the red insignia that mark his arms and chest, run over his sweaty, flushed skin, and dip beneath his pants at the hip-bones. To tell the truth, he looks a little worse for wear: his eyes are sunk into the back of his head but alive with jitters—like he struggles to focus them on one place for too long, and his whole body is radiating heat even from arm’s length.

“Be quick,” he demands, and you look at him like he’s crazy.

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask, but don’t need a verbal answer to know he’s not. At best, he’s positively unimpressed, but it’d probably be overly-optimistic to ignore the frustrated way his tail rocks from side to side. “I came here to talk about your behaviour, but you look so terrible I’m more concerned about having you faint in front of me.”

His armour is nowhere in sight, and although he looks a lot less imposing not coated with twelve-inch spikes, you’re more relieved at how he doesn’t seem to sport any wounds or bruises. Still, the heat radiating from his body becomes no less alarming.

“Do you have a fever or something?” you ask. He recoils from your touch with a wince when you press the back of your hand up to his forehead, and for a tense second, he looks just about ready to pass out, because his eyes almost roll to the back of his head before he strains them to focus on you.

“Don’t,” he snarls, and buries his nose into his palm, “unless you want to be impaled where you stand.”

When you move towards him, he takes a step back, and you’re so focused on the tremble in his feet that you don’t even notice you’ve stepped into his quarters until the door swings shut behind you.

“What do you mean?” you ask. “Are you ill?”

“Leave,” he says, and now he really is growling, seething through his teeth like a cornered animal.

“Not until I know what’s going on.”

His tail jolts erratically (like the wind-up to a punch), and for a second, you feel he’s going to slam you with it. You brace yourself by crossing your arms in front of your face and gritting your teeth, but moments pass and the pain never comes. Instead, you open them to find Cu looking at you with a sense of desperation that feels uncomfortably unfamiliar on his face.

“Just –” he begins, and takes a deep breath as his tail moves back to his side, “move back, at least.”

You remain glued to the ground out of confusion, and you’re too stiff to realise what he’s asking for until he speaks again.

“ _Now_.”

His voice is so commanding that you wake from your stupor immediately, almost tumbling backwards in your haste to listen to him. You lean against the back of the wall, keeping the door to your right (with how this situation has been panning out, it’s probably best to have it nearby), and let yourself take a deep breath of relief that eagerly draws itself out.  

“Alright,” you say, and take your eyes off Cu just long enough to take in the space around you.

You don’t expect what you see.

A deep claw-mark runs diagonally across half of his wall, and several holes are knocked-in nearer to the floor, like he slammed his tail into it hard enough for the spikes on it to pierce through. His bedding has mostly been reduced to a pile of shredded cloth and down, and a plant-pot (knocked over and broken) spills earth onto the floor from where it lies in the corner. Even his desk bears marks, like he pierced it with his claws and knocked against it hard enough to chip the edges off.

“Christ,” you say, exasperated and lost, before glancing back to witness him still trying to gather himself. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“It's not something you need to know about," is all he gives you, though you must look unimpressed enough that he immediately knows it was the wrong approach to take, because he can’t even meet your eyes.

"Come on,” you say, and take a step towards him (which he, expectedly, grimaces at), “am I really going to need a command spell just to get this out of you?"

“You would use it for something so inane?” he asks, like he expects it to actually make you reconsider. Of course, it does no such thing, and your chest only burns in anger.

“Inane?” you repeat, clenching your fists like you’re ready to clock him in the jaw. “Are you serious? You’ve been picking fights with the servants left and right, locking yourself in your room like a self-proclaimed pariah, looking like… like you’re genuinely going to collapse in front of me, and you’re telling me this is inane?”

He bristles himself by taking a step forward, and for a moment you think he’s planning on winning the argument by physically towering over you and intimidating you off pursuing it. Before he can even get close however, some spell of dizziness hits him, and his entire body contorts with a muscle spasm visible even from where you’re standing.

To tell the truth, he looks weak—pathetic, almost.

With a deep breath, your anger fades away, and you slump against the wall in a tired act of sufferance that has you feeling a little at your wits end.

(Note to self: if this kind of things keeps happening on the regular, you might seriously have to consider handing off the responsibility of being everyone’s complaint department to one of the more patient servants while you rayshift to Okeanos and hole yourself up on a deserted island.)

For the moment though, you don’t feel like an overworked master so much as you feel like a frustrated friend. Cu is… well, against all odds, he’s someone you’ve grown to trust, and although you feel a little silly for hoping he would trust you back enough to share his problems with you, it’s not exactly something you can ignore.

“You’re worrying me, you know,” you say earnestly, and look him over with a pained look in your eyes.

If you’re reading his expression right (which, even on a good day, is not something you can say with certainty) you think he’s probably feeling a little guilty for being so covert with you. There’s a conflicted nature to his hesitance, and the way he stares at you makes it seem like he’s trying to gauge the sincerity of your concern against his usually cynical approach to your relationship.

“Fine,” he finally says. He sounds just about as begrudging as you’d expect, but you still can’t help the way you sink into the wall in relief. “Though I doubt it’ll be of any use.”

Your legs still feel a little weak from when he threatened to slam you with his tail, so now that you know he won’t be trying to shoo you off anymore, you eagerly take the chance to sit against the wall and let them rest. “That’s alright,” you say, leaning back to get more comfortable. “More than anything, I just want to know you’re not gonna drop dead as soon as I leave.”

He smiles for the first time that day, and the change in atmosphere is so apparent you can almost feel the tension leave your body.

“If that’s your only concern, we could end things here. I’m not going down that easy,” he says, and laughs wryly. You’re surprised to see him follow you down to the floor, though he still maintains his distance.

“ _As if_ I’m letting you get away with not telling me anything. It’s taken me fifteen minutes just to get into your room.”

He’s amused with the back-and-forth, but his eyes scan over you a touch too intently for you not to pick up on some hint of ulterior motives. It’s not exactly out of character for him, so you don’t suddenly feel _unsafe_ , but it still bites at your toes and looms over your shoulder enough for you to get a little antsy.

“Alright then,” you begin, and do your best to smile back at him, though the grin is admittedly wonky. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re burning up like you’ve been stuck in an oven?”

The dark look goes but the memory of it still circles beneath—like the curved edge of a shark’s fin suddenly submerged into the darkness of the ocean.

“It's a curse of this body,” he says.

“Curse?”                                          

“Yeah.” His tail rocks from left to right on the floor. “Or maybe it’s a present from MedB; I could never bring myself to care either way. I just know that once every couple of months, I'm overtaken by an incredible heat from within, like my body is trying to compensate for the void that normally constitutes it.”

“Heat like… anger?”

He hesitates, and you see the muscles in his shoulder tighten. “Something like that,” he says.

“And talking to people makes it worse?”

“Usually,” he answers, and smiles down at you, “but it depends on the person.” His tone is odd and daring. You’re not sure what he’s trying to do, but whatever it is feels like a trap made much more sinister by the way he pointedly meets your eyes when you look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he begins, “that some people never affect it. I can fight alongside them the entire day and feel nothing, like the heat isn’t even there.” He looks much too aloof for his indifference to be genuine, but you’re far too hypnotised in the way the prominent muscles in his chest tense and relax as he breathes to notice. “For others however, a mere look is all it takes.”

He looks back down at you expectantly, and your eyes snap to the side in a very transparent attempt not to get caught checking him out.

“We can work with that,” you hurry to say in the hope it’ll gloss over him. “All we have to do is rearrange the team formation a little, right?” Without waiting for his response, you stand up in search for a pen and a piece of paper before finding a conveniently placed pencil and pad sitting on his desk. When you sit back down, you’re full of confidence, eager to get started. “Can you list them? In descending order of how much you want to tear them to shreds, preferably.”

The way he laughs, however, shatters your poise into tiny little shards. “List them?” he repeats. The dark look returns thrice over, dripping with the same, putrid aversion he stares his enemies down with, and you’re distinctly forced to feel like he’s not a whole two seconds away from splitting you open on his lance. “The first would certainly be you.”

There’s deadbeat moment of blankness from you before you promptly put the pad and pencil down the floor. “Well,” you begin, a little dumbstruck and offended. “I can’t exactly take myself off the team, so we’re already at a dead-end.” You’re a little annoyed that you’re back to square one (and a little more annoyed at his apparent loathing towards you), but you’re still not quite done. “Okay, so if we can’t manage it until it goes away, we should just nip it in the bud, right?”

The shadow of a dark grin dims through his face. “Good luck with that,” he says.

“How come? What do I need to do?”

“It's—” he begins, and although it's quite a rare treat to see him at loss for words, it's no less alarming. “To be blunt, sex staves it, for the most part."

“Sex?”

“So unless you're offering yourself as a volunteer, I can't imagine we'll have much to talk about.”

(Then it’s not just anger, you realise, and suddenly find yourself feeling excessively smug that it worsens with your appearance.)

“Is that why you've been holing yourself up?” You take another look at his broken furniture and gesticulate out towards the mess. You’re trying to stop yourself from looking too pleased with yourself, but to tell the truth, it’s not easy. “Why everything looks like... _that_?”

“Yeah. It's why I don’t want you here. I can't control it, so I can't guarantee your safety while this is going on.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, but you're not put off enough that you're ready to drop the issue and wait it out.

“Have you, erm—” you begin, but trail off awkwardly, waving your hand around in search of the right word, “tried dealing with it… alone?”

He looks plenty amused at your faffing about, and it’s annoying enough that you decide then and there to tease him the next time he doesn’t want to say ‘furiously jacking it off ‘till you stop seeing red’ out loud.

“Yeah,” he says, “but I can only get rid of it for maybe twenty minutes alone before it starts creeping back. I can’t deceive it. It knows when it's not the real thing.”

You look around yourself unsurely before leaning over to the door and quietly pushing the handle to lock it. There’s a tense silence as you sit closer into him, and he looks doubtful, but doesn’t move back.

“What if,” you start with a hushed whisper, “I offered to help you?”

You expect him to be dumbfounded, but you certainly don't expect him to laugh in your face. It's not an unpleasant sound (especially when he laughs so rarely) but it still feels bitter when you know it’s because he’s not taking you seriously.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he says smugly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look around.” He leans forward in his seat to encroach on your personal space. There’s a sly sense of amusement about him when he looks into your eyes, and it’s overly obvious that the only reason he moved closer was to catch the slight waver in your confidence as you, once again, take in the complete mess that has become of his quarters. (He relishes in your fear, that much is easy to see.)

“I can take it,” you insist.

He laughs again.

“No, really.”

In the very least, you seem to have amused him, because his smile doesn’t break once as he eggs you on. “Brave, aren’t you?” he asks, and it almost seems like he’s going to swallow you up. “Can you prove that?”

He’s intimidating, but you feel confident enough to bolster yourself into action. When you crawl over to him, you’re the one smiling.

“Bold words from someone who can’t even stand up straight when he gets touched,” you say, and become quite pleased at the immediacy with which his smile crumbles. To prove your point, you let your hand rest on his thigh, and a shiver ripples through his body before he presses his hand down onto yours.

(It’s so much bigger that it covers yours almost entirely.)

“If we’re going to do this, I’d advise you don’t provoke me,” he says, and moves your hand back to your side where his settles over it, pinning it to the floor with his weight as he sits forward and leans into you.

“Don’t tell me _you’re_ the one getting nervous now,” you tease, but immediately know you’re wrong because of the way he looks at you: the spitting image of a cat who just cornered a mouse.

“Test me if you want. I just assumed you wouldn’t be partial to being torn apart.”

You want to think he’s just pushing your buttons in the hope of making you scared again, but you can’t help the way you tense as his hand enjoys a journey from the top of yours to your thigh. He looks focused to the point of pain, and you can hear the sharp jolts that cut through his breathing, splitting it into laboured and heavy panting.

“Even so,” he continues as it circles into your side. The smile on his face feels strained and forced. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Then what –” you start, and get angry at yourself when a nervous gulp cuts it in half, “what _do_ I do?”

His hand moves up, lulling you into distraction as it circles your ribs through your clothes.

“Stay still.”

You look at him incredulously. “What, like a pillow princess?”

“Or don’t,” he says, and pushes on your chest to press you into the floor. “Either way, you’ve got ten seconds to change your mind and run away before you can’t.”

When your back is flush against the floor he lets the bottom half of his body fall over you, and you spread your legs to give him room. Still, you jolt when he sinks into you completely, because something is undeniably _wriggling_ against you.

“What is that?”

“I’m giving you one guess,” he says, and you hear his voice strain in his throat. When he’s this close, you can count every single breath that gasps through his mouth (if him covering his nose when you encroached on his personal space was any indication, choosing to breathe through his mouth now probably has something to do with your scent).

“Five seconds left,” he says, though it’s a moot point now, because he presses you into the floor with weight that encumbers you completely.

“Stop wasting time,” you goad him, and make quick work of your top.

A low, rumbly laugh tumbles out from his stomach. “As you wish,” he says with a vague, sarcastic sense of amusement, and leans into your neck, where his teeth graze against your pulse. He draws a deep breath inwards, nuzzling against your hair, and you feel his nose against your earlobe before he speaks again. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he whispers lowly, between the tattered pace of his breathing.

You don’t even have the chance to retaliate before his teeth sink, neatly and deeply, into your collarbone.

It’s painful, unbearably so, and you can’t help the wail that tumbles from your mouth. When you push against his chest, he only shoves your hands down and bites again, closer to your neck.

“Cu! I’ve—” you begin. Your legs shake beneath him, and your voice doesn’t seem to be faring much better, but you force it out nevertheless. “I’ve got a major artery about half an inch from where you’re sinking your teeth into.”

“Do you want me to bite there?” he asks, trailing his teeth across it.

“N-no! Don’t!”

Your breath locks in your throat when he laps at the spot, but you quickly get annoyed at yourself for breaking under the pressure when you feel him grin against your skin. He trails down to where he made the first bite and starts licking at the blood that’s pooling on your neck. You’d rather he misses the shiver of relief that rocks through you, but you think that’s probably quite unlikely.

“I’m starting to think I should have signed my will before jumping into this,” you say. Your breath is still a little jagged, but you can just about settle it enough to speak. “Do you think there’s an insurance company that will reimburse a funeral for someone who was fucked to death?”

“I think you talk too much,” he says, though he’s still smiling. He leans back up to move down your body, and it confuses you until his claws find their way around the hem of your pants. Without asking, he starts tearing them.

“Wait, hold on!”                                            

“You had your ten seconds.”

“That’s not—” you start, but they’re already torn down the side before you can even finish. You give a frustrated groan and push at his chest to give yourself some space. “At least let me take my underwear off.”

He grunts and reluctantly rolls off you to prop himself up with his elbows and take his own pants off. It’s hard not to get distracted, because you’ve got an unsated curiosity regarding whatever was squirming against your thighs when he was between them. With a flourish, you slide your underwear down to your ankles and kick it off to the side before spreading your legs eagerly.

The first appendage that reveals itself when Cu rolls to his side and presents his naked body is remarkably tactile. You say first, because there’s another, shorter one beneath it: thin and flat at the head but quickly receding into a thick and bulbous knot at the base. Cu grips the former to keep it from moving, but you can still see the steady, in-and-out pulsing of the ridges that line it on either side as it squirms against his grip.

(Also, both are big. _Really_ big.)

“There’s two,” you say in disbelief, tactfully deciding not to mention their sizes lest he starts feeling cocky.

“Yeah. Another present from MedB.”

“And… that one’s moving.”

He hums affirmatively. “Nasty thing has a mind of its own.”

To tell the truth, you’re starting to get dizzy just from looking at it. There’s a part of your mind that’s hazing out of your reach (like a distant apparition disappearing into mist) and you have to fight against an increasingly overwhelming urge to relinquish control of your limbs.

In the very least, Cu doesn’t seem to be faring much better. His hair clings to his chest from sweat, and his pupils alternate between thinning and dilating with almost every breath he takes. He’s been doing a good job at maintaining his coherency in conversation, but the more you look at him, the more you think it’s not going to last.

“Are you dizzy?” he asks. The rise and descent of his chest is stuttered and pained.

Somewhat numbly, you nod, and he looks pleased (although it’s shrouded by the uneven crumple in his features).

“Good. The musk is working.”

“Musk?” If you had to hazard a guess, you’d probably assume it has something to do with Cu’s arousal. You hadn’t noticed it before, but now that you think about it, there’s an undeniable, sharp odour about the room that’s been growing more potent ever since you stepped in.

“Don’t fight it. It keeps you loose.”

“Alright.” Your jaw feels a little slack when you speak, like it can’t quite put the effort into articulating every single sound. “To be honest, I probably need all the help I can get,” you laugh, eyeing him up and down, but you’re not exactly joking. If he plans on bottoming out, it’s probably best to let his pheromones do their work lest you get torn apart.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to tease you about it—but a seizure overtakes him and his voice stutters off into groans and gulps. His iris colours black with another dilation, and he shakes his head like his life depends on it.

“Cu?” you ask. Even your tongue feels limp now; longer sentences are drifting out of your reach.

“Your scent,” he murmurs and grips his nose. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a thick, viscous trail of precum leak down the side of his longer dick. You want to tell him to let go and sink into the feeling, but before your burnt-out muscles (and by extension, your tongue) can catch up with your train of thought, you decide against it. If his initial threats were at all sincere, it’s probably best he doesn’t entirely lose himself.

“We need to start. Now.”

“Now?” you repeat slowly, but he’s already rolled on top of you. His hands rest on either side of your head to prop up his body, and the seizure-like shiver in his forearms is difficult to miss. When he’s this close, the dishevelled ruin of his breathing is even more obvious. It spreads heat across your face in heavy puffs, dragging across your skin when he brings his head down to rest his forehead on yours.

The sharp spines on his tail press into your thigh as he winds it around your legs to spread them further apart, and with a sharp, painful tug upwards, your hip raises off the ground. Weakly, you gasp when you feel something cold and wet brush against your entrance, trailing a path of precum around your thigh like it’s searching for a place it can slither into.

Cu leads it with his fingers and it plunges inside of you with enthusiasm to spare, squirming to fill you entirely. It’s big, though you’re surprised at the ease with which it pulses and slides, probably equally thanks to its slickness as your readiness. The ridges fan out, press against you walls and contract again—in and out in a steady rhythm. You try to settle around it, but he doesn’t wait for you to get comfortable to start moving. His hips startle up to yours with little reservation, curving into you with a swift, sharp, thrust.

“C-Cu!” you gasp, grabbing onto his arms and dragging your nails into his skin. The stretching feels good, unbearably so, but his width and speed bring it to the point of pain. You want to tell him to take it easy (that his dick already squirms enough without his assistance) but with every thrust, your breath runs away and you can’t force the words out (the dizzy limpness secured by his musk certainly doesn’t make this better), so he only gets rougher. Harsh and forced, his breath trails across your ear as he leans down to smell you, and the dimness of his eyes further darkens—becomes a black hole that threatens to swallow you alive.

It almost seems like you’ve left his awareness. With a definite, single-minded movement, he shoves into you and presses his chest to yours—pushing you firmly down to the floor as his tail winds up your leg like a boa constrictor and circles around your waist to hold you there. One of his hands pins your hip to the floor so you don’t bounce against it when he uses your body—like you’re nothing more than a hole he’d secure to the floor if he could, and his tail coils tighter around your leg, digging into your skin with every thrust. Even when he meets your eyes, he looks through them with a thousand-yard stare that pulls your heart right out of your chest.

You dig your nails into his arms, and in turn, he glides his teeth across your chest. He doesn’t seem to be outwardly aware of the scratches and bite-marks he leaves, but he certainly seems to be enjoying the way you crane away from his mouth as much as you can while his weight presses you firmly into the floor. His hand on your hip holds you down hard enough to bruise, but you know it’s necessary with how hard he’s bottoming out.

You can barely think fast enough to keep track of your own pleasure, but it builds quickly, less of a slow-gathering mist and more of a violent upheaval that slams you like a tonne of bricks.

“So fast,” you gasp and shudder, adjusting your grip to his back as he shifts his hips for a different angle. He’s moved a little closer into you, and more of his chest rubs against yours as he runs his mouth up, up and up, piercing your skin with ease as he tears into you with his teeth. Slowly, the markings on his chest disappear into your skin as the gap between your bodies thins to nothing, and the heat that rubs off him threatens to burn you alive. Still, if his growing frustration is anything to go by, it’s not enough.

“Closer,” he murmurs, with a voice so far-away that had it not been right above your ear, you’re convinced you wouldn’t have heard it. Roughly, his hands wind around you and pull you into him, and yours find a firmer purchase against his back. His hair trails over your chest as it rocks with his thrusts—met with a wet slap at every junction.

Absently, you feel his precum leak out of you, thick and opaque, and you still feel like you’re being stretched wide open when he slows for a moment, breath still heavy, and grabs the smaller, thicker dick that rests below the one squirming desperately inside of you.

“Might hurt,” he says hurriedly and catches his breath. His voice has been reduced to a low, gruff rumble. “Hold on.”

Taking a firm hold of his forearms, you nod and grit your teeth.

“Wider,” he says, moving your legs apart. You feel a little guilty making him do all the work, but it’s too easy to relax and become compliant in his arms when he holds you so tightly, gripping you like he’s trying to soothe the tumult inside of him by tugging on your thighs. When your legs are sufficiently parted, he stills and stares, examining the way his dick squirms at your opening, and the grip on your skin only tightens while his eyes contract and dilate.

Weakly, you become impatient enough to thrust your hips upwards. He jolts to glance at you for barely a second: a short, intense look that drips with feeling—enough to drown out the pain as he scratches a bright, red line down your thigh with his nails and hoists your legs around his waist. Before he makes the final move to slide his other dick inside of you, he props himself over you and leans his face so close into yours that you can feel his breath on your cheek again.

Then he waits, very still.

His eyes are trained on you with focus that proves remarkably more intimidating than anything he’s said to scare you thus fair. You use the chance to get your breath back, though it’s admittedly difficult while his dick refuses to stop squirming, in and out, fanning every single ridge against you. At this distance, the bright, shiny beads of sweat dazzling his forehead give privy to the strenuous havoc of his heat—a force that seems to have claimed him entirely. He’s locked on you, refusing to let you out of his sight even when your faces are two inches apart.

“Cu?” you ask, slowly raking over his gently parted lips and soft, lost expression—offering a vulnerability you’re not used to with him.

In one, quick movement, Cu takes your lips into his and tilts his hips to push inside of you. You gasp into his mouth both out of surprise and the fullness that stretches you as the tip of his second dick slides in. It aches, that much is a given, but you’re almost too shocked to feel it, because while having casual (albeit no less rough), heat-induced sex to assist Cu with his mood swings is relatively in-character for the both of you, being subjected to a soft, sweet kiss as he enters is certainly not. Still, it’s not an unwelcome plot-twist; you’re quite happy to kiss him back and use your legs to bring his waist closer. He seems to find this agreeable, because a pleased growl rumbles into your mouth as he bites your lip and laps at the blood it draws.

Weakly, his thrusts resume. His second dick is far from being entirely sheathed inside of you, because its tapered head widens quickly to a bulbous knot that feels almost comically thick. You want to ask him if he plans on forcing it in (and to warn him that it might tear you apart, so it probably wouldn’t be a good idea), but at that moment his longer dick constricts against your walls and your breath gets cut off with a series of high-pitched gasps that never stop. Only his name settles between the gaps as you cry out for him, and he’s so pleased to hear it that the grip of his hands tightens where they’re wound around your chest. With a possessive growl that rumbles all the way from his stomach, he withdraws into you for another, more desperate kiss.

You feel the build of your orgasm return as he picks up pace, draws you closer, kisses bruises into your neck (running from your jawline to the dip of your collarbone), before he devours your lips again, groaning against your moans and gasps.

It feels good. Everything is moving, from the erratic wriggle of his appendage to the harsh pivot of his hips, from his tightness of his grip (which only constricts harder with every breath)—intent on pulling you so tight against him that you can only feel the hot friction as his skin rubs on yours—to the cold trail of his precum as it drips against your inner thigh and onto the floor.

“Nearly—” you cry, digging your fingernails into his back to ground yourself as much as you can, “nearly there.”

His reaction comes all at once. One of his hands winds around to cup the back of your head in a gesture that had it not been preceded by a platitude of kisses, might have seemed suspiciously tender. This time when your lips meet, it’s dizzyingly passionate—a storm that sweeps your body away with ease and leaves your legs shaking around his waist.

This is the closest he’s been yet: his hips are nearly flush with yours—eagerly pushing into you harder, while his shallow thrusts circle against you, curving with forceful swivels that shove into you a little harder each time. They’re purposeful, searching for some kind of reaction that his focused stare is patiently waiting for, and when they find it (with a particularly sharp inflection that tails one of your moans), they settle with that angle and go even harder.

Cu rushes forward with another, head-spinning kiss, pushing you over the edge with a few, slow thrusts until you tip, crying into his mouth and feeling your hands go numb at your sides. He stills for a second, and you’re about to swivel your hips and remind him to thrust (so you can ride it out) before he sinks in with one, powerful plunge, and –

It’s in.

It’s all in.

God, it hurts.

It cuts your orgasm in half, tearing like something is clawing at your entrance. You wail, gasp and cry, but he swallows it up with his mouth like he was expecting it, rubbing a soothing circle into your side with the hand that doesn’t press your head to his. When you try to slide off him, you find that his knot is locked firmly in place, and no amount of writhing even budges it. You push against him, doubling over in agony, and though the over-sensitivity from your orgasm does wonders to temper it, the pain is still bad enough that you scratch deep, red lines into his chest with your nails.

Every attempt at speaking (yelling at him to get off) pours into his throat as he kisses you harshly, swept away by everything he does to settle and distract you, and you don’t even realise you’re crying until the first few tears boil across your temple. Eventually, the last of your agonized sobs trail off into whines and whimpers, and Cu doesn’t separate from you once, taking them all into himself with a relentless obsession.

When he finally withdraws, your eyes are glassy—lost amid pain and orgasm. Your lips shake, still numb and bleeding from when he bit into them, and your voice is too fragile a tool to string words together. In the moment you can’t think clear enough to care about his reaction to your disheveled appearance, but you probably should have expected the satisfaction that recurs through him from all angles.

You’ve never seen him so enraptured. (Maybe if you stopped to think about it, you’d be a little creeped out that this is his reaction to seeing you so mind-broken.)

When you’ve gone completely quiet, he meets you with another kiss and starts nudging into you with slow, shallow pushes. Even though they’re still buried among slicing, tearing, pain, they ride out the last waves of your orgasm with acute gentleness, and your whimpers are soft against his lips.

You’re so limp and pliable in his arms that he you don’t even outwardly react when he finishes inside of you. Gratuitous streams of cum spurt one after another while his knot keeps them from spilling, and his last, forced thrusts drag painfully till he falls limply by your side. Eventually, his breathing plateaus into a slow (albeit still heavy) rhythm that you feel most prominently against the crown of your hair as his chin rests on your head.

When he’s sufficiently still, you take the chance to wipe your face of tears, and your hand comes back bloodied where you rubbed it across your lip. Despite fear at having the pain flare up again, you try to shimmy yourself off his knot so you don’t have to take all his seed, but he opens his eyes almost immediately.

“Stay,” he snarls, and coils his arms around you to press you into his chest.

“It hurts,” you mutter, but he just groans and clings to you harder, locking you in with a cage-like grip that doesn’t take any chances.

Resigned to your fate, you take a deep breath and nuzzle your face into his neck. It takes a while, but the pain eventually fades enough that you can relax against him. A little more at ease, you take to running your hand through his hair, and you’re somewhat surprised that he doesn’t do anything to shove you off. An inclination for intimacy is not something you’d ever ascribe to him, but he seems so strangely at peace compared to his unrest when you first opened the door that you can’t help but settle into it.

After a while, the cloud circling you vision recedes, and you’re pleased to find your voice return to you.

Of course, the first thing you use it for is to rib him.

“Didn’t know you were such a sap after sex,” you say, and you don’t even need to look at him to see his annoyed grimace.

“The knot has to stay inside for a while,” he justifies lazily. You feel the low vibrations of his voice against your hair. “Or else it comes back.”

“When do I take it out?”

“It’ll do it on its own.”

“Hm. Alright.”

Part of you wishes you could clean yourself off, but another bruise reveals itself every time you move and Cu’s knot is the perfect excuse to stay where you are. He’s warm, though thankfully not to the point of fever anymore, and his body envelops yours in a perfect fit that fits snug against every part of your that would otherwise be exposed to the cold.

Neither of you move until his knot becomes less swollen, and you manage to get about half-way into falling asleep before it slides out of you with a pop that’s immediately followed by an emission of cum. He groans like someone reluctantly waking up in the morning and slides out the rest of the way, and you give one, last gasp at the relief of finally being empty.

Cu languidly runs a hand up his dick and inspects the thick, white cum that runs down the sides.

“There’s blood,” he says calmly.

You look over to see that he is, in fact, telling the truth.

“I’m not surprised.”

To call him worried would be an overstatement, but he looks just concerned enough that you think he has to be entertaining some kind of curiosity at least. “Will you take care of it?” he asks, and nonchalantly wipes his hand on his leg.

“Yeah, course. I’ll just get the casters to patch me up.”

“Casters?” he questions, looking a little alarmed and genuinely off-put, like something about it doesn’t sit well with him.

“Yeah,” you say, trailing off suspiciously. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

He gruffs lowly and takes his eyes off you. He’s not focused on anything in particular, though he seems to be quite concerned with looking anywhere that you’re not. “Do what you want,” he says, but the tone of his voice suggests a discord between it and his true intentions. “As long as you remember I claimed you.”

This gives you pause.

“You did what?”

The post-orgasm haze seems to make him lazy and reluctant to talk, because he only groans in response.

“Cu, what do you mean?” you ask, a little concerned and a lot confused.

“Does it matter? Simply don’t reveal yourself to anyone else.”

His vague response does nothing to satiate you, so you think it appropriate to do something you know will frustrate him back. “That’s a tall order,” you say playfully. “I have plenty of other people to keep me company, you know.”

You turn up to face him, expecting a similarly amused expression (followed by a return to the back-and-forth), but what you see stops you in your tracks almost completely.

His glare is poison.

Every part of you rings with vulnerability, and you suddenly become astutely aware of what his enemies on the battlefield must feel before he tears them from limb to limb. Absentmindedly, you run one hand along your neck, covering it from him.

“Or not?”

He turns his nose up at you, but his glare softens considerably as he gives an affirmative grunt and goes back to trying to figure out what he should do with the cum still (yes, still) spilling out of you.

 _What a strange reaction_ , you muse, observing him curiously. Your eyes are somewhat reluctant to leave him, even though he’s doing nothing of note, and you’re still struggling to figure out what that little display was about.

“Did I… sign some sort of eldritch marriage covenant without realising?” you ask, laughing to yourself as you inspect your skin for bruises. Most prominent are the ones that circle your collarbones, still fresh with bright, red blood. _'Or are you just too embarrassed to admit you’d get jealous if someone else saw me naked?'_ you think, but make an explicit point not to say it out loud. Albeit funny, it doesn’t exactly make for a very graceful series of last words.

Instead, you suck in your breath and ready yourself for the inevitable rush of pain that will happen when you sit up. The swollen apparition of a bruise echoes just about everywhere on your body, and you can only wonder what the whole ensemble will look like when it gathers colour by the morning.

(Though you most dread Cu’s smug reaction.)

Eventually, you gather the courage, and a thin, pained hiss runs from your mouth when you sit up.

“I can’t believe you just railed me on the floor,” you say, scratching at a flake of blood that has somehow found its way to your knee. “We need to get you another bed,”

“Hm,” he laughs lowly, “already thinking about the next time?”

“Depends,” you say, “will there be a next time?”

It takes a beat of silence, but this brings the biggest laugh yet. It’s almost rancorous, an evil guffaw that relishes in drawing itself out with about as much wicked satisfaction as Cu has for making you tremble. You’re a little put-off, because to tell the truth, you’re not entirely sure what he’s finding so funny.

“You must have misunderstood,” he says, standing up to stretch his muscles. He looks a lot healthier than he did before the sex, though the scratches you carved into his chest are still raw and red. If he hadn’t (quite literally) torn you apart, you’d probably be feeling a little guilty about them.

“How so?” you ask.

Cu takes his time to answer, languidly strolling over to the corner of the room where his black and red cloak lays crumpled on the floor. (Honestly, you’re not surprised he doesn’t have the patience for a coat-hanger.)

“Because,” he begins, and picks it up, “the heat is far from over.”

“It’s what?”

With a distinctly amused grin, Cu drops the coat over your head. You flail beneath it inelegantly until you unearth yourself from the abundance of fabric, and you manage pop your head out just in time to see him sit back down next to you.

“It’ll return tomorrow,” he explains. There’s an edge of expectancy to the way he looks at you, and it’s not difficult to guess what he’s going to say next. “If you’re not too scared, my door will be open.”

“And if I am?” you ask, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders. Your pants are still ripped, so it'll definitely come in handy for when you leave.

He sits up to inspect you for a moment, but his posture quickly relaxes when he notices you’re only kidding. This rapport is a little unfamiliar to him, but he thinks, with a somewhat idle satisfaction, that he could get used to it.

“Then you can send someone else,” he says (but only because he knows you won’t).


End file.
